


given all of time and space, I would still find my way to you

by spilled_notes



Category: Holby City
Genre: 5+1, AU, Bletchley Park, Bramwell - Freeform, Crossover (kind of), Discworld - Freeform, Dragonriders of Pern - Freeform, Elinor Lives, F/F, Jane Austen - Freeform, Mutual Pining, Pern, Persuasion - Freeform, Regency, Soulmates, The Bletchley Circle - Freeform, Victorian era, World War II, bed sharing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-13
Updated: 2017-02-19
Packaged: 2018-09-24 03:08:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 19,280
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9697037
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spilled_notes/pseuds/spilled_notes
Summary: Or, the one where Bernie and Serena are destined to meet time and again across countless lifetimes.(Or, five times Bernie and Serena could have met throughout history, and one time they did.)





	1. 1896, East End, London

**Author's Note:**

> AN 1: Please forgive any inaccuracies - medical, historical, factual or canonical (this last particularly applies to chapter four!).  
> AN 2: These are more AUs in which I have transplanted Bernie and Serena to another fandom/universe than crossovers (although there is the odd cameo).  
> AN 3: In each of these, Bernie and Serena are around the same ages as they are in canon.  
> AN 4: This was the result of brainfog, so may be a tad on the crazy side in places!

They meet over a man with his leg trapped and bleeding in a crashed underground train carriage. Dr. Serena Campbell had been travelling back to the Thrift infirmary after an early morning house call when the train screeched and juddered and filled with screams, eventually sliding to a halt leaving her shaken but unharmed.

They shepherd the rest of the passengers out, she and a gentleman, and he's just about to help her onto the tracks when they hear a shout for help. Serena ignores the gentleman’s protests and scrambles back through the darkness and debris towards the voice.

The man’s leg is under a heap of wreckage that will clearly take some time to shift. She leans to examine it, murmurs a reassurance that she's a doctor and ignores the answering ‘and I'm the bleeding Queen of Sheba’.

‘You've lost a lot of blood. I'll give you some morphine for the pain and see what I can do.’

She shuffles back, but before she can reach for her bag someone is placing a vial in her hand. She looks around, sees the gentleman just behind her.

‘May I take a look?’

‘Arterial bleed below the knee,’ she says softly, administering the morphine as he leans over her shoulder. ‘I see no way of getting him out in a timely fashion.’

‘Agreed,’ he says grimly. ‘Doesn't leave much choice.’

Their eyes meet in the dimness. Serena recognises the calm concern and resolve of a fellow physician.

‘What are you going to do?’ the man asks, frantic.

‘Do you have-?’ the gentlemen asks, ignoring him, gesturing to Serena's bag.

She shakes her head. ‘Not generally required on house calls to elderly ladies.’

‘No, I can't imagine they are.’ He reaches down beside his feet. Serena hears a clanking, and he pulls out a roll of instruments.

‘I was on my way to a new job at the East London,’ he says conversationally, selecting what they need. ‘Being tardy isn't exactly going to form a good first impression.’

‘Hardly your fault,’ Serena says, shifting to make space for him but he shakes his head.

‘You'll have to. Dislocated my shoulder.’

Serena takes a breath, then accepts the saw he holds towards her.

‘You're gonna let her cut off my leg?’ the man cries, seeing the glint of the blade.

‘If we don't get you out, you'll bleed to death,’ Serena says firmly, studying the injured leg and picking her spot.

‘More morphine please, Dr-?’

‘Wolfe,’ the gentleman supplies.

‘Dr. Campbell,’ Serena returns.

‘No, no, no,’ the man babbles. ‘Please, no.’

‘We really have no choice,’ Dr. Wolfe says. ‘You were very lucky, you know, to be in the same carriage as two doctors.’

‘Don't feel like luck,’ he mutters.

‘Ready, Dr. Campbell?’

Their eyes catch again, and Serena nods.

*

Dr. Wolfe insists on accompanying Serena back to the Thrift with their patient. He watches with interest as she, another doctor and a nurse triage and treat the injured, offers what assistance he can with one arm.

‘Will you let me relocate that now?’ Serena asks when she can finally pause to draw breath.

She expects him to scoff that a woman doesn't have the strength but he just nods, grits his teeth and grunts as she wrenches his arm.

‘Thank you,’ he says quietly as she checks her work, fingers gentle but firm on his shoulder. ‘Very nicely done. And I don't just mean my arm.’

Serena is surprised not to hear the usual patronising tone but a genuine compliment. ‘Thank you.’

‘Your nurse was telling me that you set up this infirmary yourself, for the poor.’

‘That's correct.’

‘I wonder if I might trouble you to tell me a little more about what you do?’

Serena opens her mouth, but before she can answer she hears Mr. di Lucca calling for her.

‘Perhaps on a less hectic day?’ Dr. Wolfe suggests wryly.

‘Well you know where to find me, you'd be most welcome,’ Serena smiles. ‘Now, you'd best get to the East London while there's still some of your first day left. Just be careful of that arm.’

‘Yes, doctor.’

*

A fortnight later Mr. di Lucca is in Glasgow visiting his sick mother when Serena finds herself in desperate need of a second surgeon. There is no time to think, really. She recalls Dr. Wolfe’s support and professed interest in seeing more of the Thrift so, as she prepares the patient, she sends to the East London for him and prays he will come.

He does, as quickly as is possible and quicker than Serena had dared to hope, strides in and sets to work beside her without a complaint, with no hint that he wishes to do anything other than follow her lead and instruction. And once the girl is safe and recovering he lingers, assists Serena with her rounds, watches her closely as she works. Yet not for one moment does she feel she is being tested, that her practise is going to be criticised, her knowledge decried. He lends a hand when she asks, never once balks at being commanded by a woman, betrays no discomfort or paternalism, offers suggestions without patronising her.

And at the end of the day, when they are both in the office preparing to leave, he perches on the desk and smiles at her, almost hesitantly.

‘I've heard a great deal about you since we first met, Dr. Campbell.’

‘I don't doubt it,’ Serena replies tightly.

‘I don't put a lot of store in gossip,’ he continues. ‘I much prefer to see things with my own eyes.’

‘And?’

‘You are a very skilled doctor and surgeon. I have great respect for what you've achieved, what you continue to achieve here every day.’

Serena can't help but laugh at this.

‘Something amusing?’

‘I apologise, Dr. Wolfe. I have become quite accustomed to male doctors telling me that they _respect my work,_ ’ she says, eyebrows arched. ‘Although I must admit you do sound rather more sincere that most of your colleagues manage.’

‘They're all made blind by the fact that you're a woman.’

‘And you? You don't object to female doctors?’

‘Not in the slightest.’

‘Well,’ Serena manages, nonplussed. ‘If you might find a way to influence the rest of the medical community I, for one, would be most grateful.’

‘I'll see what I can do. Although I make no promises, they're so very stubborn.’

‘As I am only too aware,’ Serena sighs. ‘Thank you for your assistance today, Dr. Wolfe. I appreciate it very much.’

‘I'm glad I could help. I've had a most interesting and enlightening day. And enjoyable too, working alongside you. I wonder, would you be amenable to my spending time here on a regular basis?’

‘You wish to work here?’

‘Only if you don't mind. There's so much merit in what you're doing, so much need among the people here. I would like to offer my services.’

‘I cannot offer much in the way of wages.’

‘No need. The East London pays enough that I can give you my time free of charge. And I'd much rather you spent the money on your patients.’

‘And working with a woman?’

Dr. Wolfe shrugs. ‘To me you’re simply another doctor. You have a medical degree, the same as I do. You have experience, the same as I do. As far as I'm concerned we're equals, Dr. Campbell.’

Serena looks at him for a long moment, considering. ‘I cannot deny that the extra help would be beneficial – you saw today how busy we are.’

‘I don't wish to step on your toes,’ Dr. Wolfe reassures, sensing her caution. ‘I feel I can learn a lot from you and the Thrift, I only hope I can give something in return.’

‘Some of what you've heard about me is true,’ Serena warns. ‘I'm well aware I am perhaps not the easiest person to work with – as I'm sure Mr. di Lucca will attest to.’

‘We seem to have managed well enough so far, don't you think? We're both still alive, after all.’

Serena smiles, and then laughs. ‘You're right. Oh, why not? If we're at each other's throats before the month is out then–’

‘Then I will leave gracefully and never darken your door again,’ Dr. Wolfe smiles, holding out his hand.

‘Then welcome to the Thrift, Dr. Wolfe,’ Serena says, shaking it firmly.

*

Dr. Wolfe spends one day a week at the Thrift. To begin with Serena ensures she is always present, even if only completing paperwork while he treats patients. But when it becomes apparent that he really does have no interest in usurping her, that he is skilled, that their only disagreements occur when they have differing opinions over what is best for a patient and that these disagreements are only ever based on science – and that he does not assume he is always right – she finds she is content to leave him unsupervised.

And then she finds she is not. Finds herself drawn to the Thrift when she knows he will be there even though there is no need for her presence. Finds herself watching him, not because she is concerned, not because she does not trust his judgement or skill, but because –

 _Oh dear,_ she thinks with a wry smile as her eyes trace Dr. Wolfe’s back where he bends over a patient. And then he straightens up, turns, meets her gaze and smiles slightly. Serena feels her cheeks flush, caught in her admiration, and turns away. _Oh dear._

_Still, there's no danger in a bit of flirtation between colleagues, is there?_

Serena finds herself smiling more, touching more, standing closer than necessary. Finds Dr. Wolfe’s smiles come more readily too. They may have their arguments but they do work well, as Mr. di Lucca comments to Serena more than once after chaotic days and challenging surgeries, and the Thrift is running smoother than ever.

*

Dr. Bernie Wolfe becomes a regular dinner guest at Serena's. They discuss their respective work days, the latest articles in _The Lancet_. Serena tells him about her late father and husband, both doctors, about her grown daughter. About how, when her husband died, she and Elinor had moved back in with her father and Serena had decided to follow her interest in medicine and enrolled at the London School of Medicine for Women. Bernie, in turn, regales her with tales of time spent in France and India, tells her about the current political wrangling and posturing at the East London. They often sit in front of the fire, sipping brandy or port, late into the night, and Serena increasingly finds herself longing to close the respectable gap between them.

He is a regular guest at soirées too, albeit an unwilling one. Serena hushes his complaints, flutters her eyelashes and finally gets him to agree to attend. Every evening Serena glances up as she skilfully talks her way around the room, charming donations from her guests, to find his eyes on her. And when he tries to sneak away early Serena follows him into the hall and persuades him back. It's selfish of her, she knows, when he clearly does not derive the same enjoyment as she does from such gatherings, has not been brought up with them. But she longs for just a little more of his company, just a little more time to surreptitiously glance at him over the rim of her glass, to catch his eye across the room, to brush against him when they pass. Longs to say goodbye in private, to let her gloved hand linger on his arm, her lips linger on his cheek, her eyes linger on his. There are several occasions when she is almost certain he's about to kiss her but each time he blinks, steps away from her and disappears into the night, leaving her filled with longing and a frustration that he should be such a gentleman.

*

One night the two of them work late to save a friend of Mr. di Lucca’s, stabbed as he tried to break up a fight. She has to send a frantic Raf out with a snap and a glare, has to send him further when all he does is pace up and down outside the treatment room where she can see him through the windows.

For a moment Serena thinks they're going to lose him, hands shaking as her composure slips.

‘We can do this,’ Dr. Wolfe says calmly. She looks up, meets his eye across the table. ‘We've got this.’

Serena takes a breath, nods, returns her attention to the body on the table. They work in near silence, do what they can to repair the damage and stitch him up.

‘He's strong,’ she says to Raf when they're finished, a comforting hand on his arm. ‘No guarantees, but as long as we can avoid infections I think he stands a good chance.’

Raf insists on staying with the night nurse, on sitting beside his friend’s bed and monitoring his progress. So they both pull off bloodied aprons and wash up side by side, sink into chairs to gather themselves before they leave.

‘Thank you,’ Serena says softly. ‘I couldn't have saved him without you.’

‘We make a good team,’ Bernie replies.

‘Yes.’ Serena turns her head to look at him, her breath catching when she realises just how close they are. ‘Bernie,’ she murmurs. She finds she can't look away, can't break eye contact. Finds herself leaning closer, closer, until their lips meet and with a tiny sigh she thinks _finally. Finally._

There is a blissful moment when he kisses her back, lips soft and tender as they move against hers. And then they draw apart a little and suddenly she sees his smile fade, replaced by panic.

‘I, uh, I have to go,’ he mutters, pushing his chair back with a screech and hurrying from the room without a backwards glance.

Serena feels tears spring, unbidden, to her eyes.

*

Late the following evening Serena has dismissed Kate for the night, is curled in front of the fire with _The Lancet_ open on her lap. But her eyes are on the flickering flames, her mind whirling with guilt and worry and longing. And then she hears a knock at the front door, cautious, almost reluctant. She sets the journal aside, pats her hair and smooths her dress as she steps into the hall. Outside, pale and damp, is Bernie. _Dr. Wolfe,_ she corrects herself firmly.

Their eyes meet and for a moment all they can do is stare at each other. And then Serena remembers herself, stands aside and allows him to pass, takes his wet hat and coat and hangs them. Leads him silently into the warm parlour, closes the door behind them.

‘I wanted to apologise,’ he says softly, his fingers twisting, spine rigid and shoulders tense.

 _So anxious,_ Serena thinks, clasping her own hands to keep herself from reaching to still his.

‘I'm the one who should apologise. I shouldn't have kissed you.’

‘I wanted you to,’ he says quietly. ‘I've been wanting to kiss you for weeks.’

‘Why didn't you, then? And if it was not unwelcome then why did you leave so abruptly?’

Bernie takes a deep breath, turns and crosses the room to stare out of the window into the darkness. ‘I'm not who you think I am.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘I can trust you, can't I, Serena?’

Serena feels a shiver at his use of her Christian name, the way it sounds precious falling from his lips, so unlike how Edward ever pronounced it. ‘You know you can, Bernie.’

‘My name isn't Bernard,’ he confesses, barely above a whisper, barely audible over the sound of the rain outside and the crackling fire within. ‘It's– it's Berenice. I'm a woman, Serena.’

‘A– a woman?’

Bernie nods.

‘So you don't have a problem with female doctors because you–’

‘Yes. I have wanted to be a doctor for as long as I can remember, but this was before women could train. When I was twenty I came to London, cut my hair, transformed myself into Bernard.’

‘And Bernard you have been ever since.’

‘Yes. So, you see, I couldn't kiss you because – well, because I'm not a man, not who you thought I was.’

‘Oh,’ Serena breathes.

Silence falls. Serena's mind is racing. Bernie is fighting the urge to run from the room, from the dear friend she has surely offended and lost.

And then suddenly Serena walks to stand beside her.

‘You said you wanted to kiss me.’

Bernie nods, and Serena lays a hand on her arm. The touch surprises her, makes her look around. She expects to see disgust, pity, anger. Doesn't expect to be met with softness, warmth, longing.

‘It's a lot to take in,’ Serena says quietly. She hesitates, then leans closer and lightly brushes her lips against Bernie's.

‘Serena?’

‘I need to think about it,’ she says. ‘But I'm almost certain that I want to kiss Berenice just as much as I wanted to kiss Bernard.’

Bernie gazes at her, for a moment unable to respond. ‘You,’ she croaks, ‘you don't hate me?’

‘Never,’ Serena avows.

‘I didn't mean for this to happen,’ Bernie promises. ‘I didn't mean for you to be, didn't mean to make you–’

‘Hush,’ Serena says fondly. ‘I know.’

*

Serena thinks about it. Thinks of almost nothing else. As Kate pins her hair each morning, as she examines patients, as she eats dinner, as she lies in bed unable to sleep for thoughts of Bernie. Of _Berenice._

By the time they see each other again she has made her decision. There is a tension in the Thrift all day. Bernie cannot help darting concerned glances at her, and Serena cannot help watching her surreptitiously. It turns into another long day, stretching well into the evening. When they are finally alone together, Serena pushes her against the desk and gently but surely kisses her.

‘I do,’ she murmurs. ‘I do want you.’

*

They take dinner together the following evening, discuss their respective days as they always do while under the table Serena's foot presses against Bernie's calf. Bernie shoots her a warning glance but Serena merely smiles, a wicked glint in her eye, and trails her toes higher, up to the crook of Bernie's knee, delighting in the hitch of her breath, the way her knife rattles against her plate.

They sit a respectable distance apart to sip their brandy, eyes catching over their glasses.

‘That will be all for tonight Kate, thank you,’ Serena says with a smile.

She waits until the maid has closed the door, until they hear her footsteps across the hall, another door open and shut. Only then does Serena set down her glass and shift closer, reaching to clasp Bernie's hand.

Bernie finds herself holding her breath as Serena lifts her hand, gently touches each finger, turns it to trace each line on her palm.

‘You have beautiful hands,’ she murmurs. ‘So skilled. I've admired them since we met. Only now I find myself considering what they might be capable of–’ She breaks off, inhales sharply, and when she continues her voice is low and tugs at something deep inside Bernie. ‘What they might be capable of elsewhere. Not in the hospital,’ she clarifies. ‘With me. _On_ me.’

Bernie dares to look at her, sees the blush staining her cheeks, the darkness of her eyes. ‘Oh,’ she breathes shakily. ‘Oh, Serena.’ She slides her hand to twine their fingers, feels her skin tingle. ‘I, too, have been mesmerised by your hands,’ she admits.

Serena looks up, gaze flicking between Bernie's eyes and her lips. She leans closer, nudges her nose against Bernie's, lets out a shuddering breath. And then their lips meet, warm and soft and increasingly demanding, hands coming to grasp at hair and clothing, until eventually Bernie pulls back, breathless and faint.

‘Would you let me see you?’ Serena asks, almost shyly.

‘Are you not worried you'll start a scandal, a man spending the night?’

‘I've been the subject of gossip before, I will be again,’ Serena smiles, and then sighs. ‘But you're right, of course.’ She disentangles herself from Bernie's embrace, stands and paces.

‘You have a reputation to uphold, I won't sully that.’

‘But you– you would?’ Serena asks hesitantly. ‘You would stay, would– would lie with me?’

‘Yes,’ Bernie replies simply.

*

The following week a note is delivered to Bernie at the East London, addressed in Serena's familiar script. She opens it carefully, unfolds the single sheet of paper:

‘Dine with me tonight? I wish to discuss the future of our partnership. And I have a most tantalising dessert I desire to share with you. S.’

After taking a moment to steady her suddenly racing heart Bernie hurriedly writes a reply with trembling hand:

‘I shall look forward to it – dessert especially. B.’

*

They both have long days, and whatever their intentions collapse into chairs in the parlour and devour the platter of cold meats and bread Kate has left on the sideboard.

‘I've given her the night off,’ Serena explains. ‘To see her parents.’

Bernie gulps, almost chokes on her wine. She had known, of course, what Serena meant, the promise thinly disguised in her note. Here, though, with Serena beside her and that glint in her eyes, it suddenly feels terribly real. She tugs at her collar, desperate for relief from the heat filling her.

‘Ready for dessert?’ Serena asks, and while her voice is innocent her eyes are anything but.

Bernie doesn't reply, brain and tongue unable to form words, just stares at Serena and allows all that she feels to show. Serena stands, holds out her hand. Bernie takes it, shivers at the slide of their skin.

 _Pull yourself together,_ she thinks sternly. _If you almost come undone at her hand in yours, how are you going to survive the night?_

In Serena's bedroom they kiss, and kiss. And then, together, they undress Bernie. And when she's naked, and it's unmistakeable that she's as much a woman as Serena is, Bernie drops her gaze nervously to the floor, waits for Serena to tell her she's changed her mind, to reject her.

‘Oh,’ Serena breathes unsteadily. ‘Oh, Bernie.’

She runs her fingers along Bernie's cheekbone, her jaw, down her neck, across her clavicles.

‘May I– may I touch you?’

Bernie looks up, meets her eye. Moans softly when she sees that they're filled with desire, with love. Once again cannot find her voice but nods.

Serena smooths her hands over Bernie's breasts, revelling in the soft flesh, thumbs brushing her nipples. Slides them down Bernie's sides, her waist. When she reaches her hips, Bernie stops her.

‘I think you're a little overdressed, my dear.’

Tearing her gaze from Bernie’s skin to meet eyes darkened with want, Serena can only nod in agreement. Now their trembling hands work in tandem to undress her, make light work of each layer until she, too, is naked.

Bernie gazes at her, awestruck, then draws her close until they're pressed together.

It might be the most glorious thing either of them has ever felt.

‘Will you take me to bed?’ Serena murmurs

Bernie draws back just far enough to meet her eye, to study her face. Is satisfied by what she sees. ‘Yes,’ she replies, and kisses her again.

*

Three weeks later – three weeks of stolen kisses, surreptitious brushes of fingers, brief embraces behind closed doors – they meet in a hotel at the seaside for the weekend.

(‘About time you had a break,’ Mr. di Lucca says, delighted, when Serena announces that she's going away. ‘I've only been trying to get you to take one all year.’)

It is, apparently, a chance meeting in the dining room. (Bernie later murmurs to Serena that she may have slightly overdone it when she acted surprised at seeing her.) Bernie invites her to take tea, then asks if she would care to take a walk along the beach. There's nothing untoward about it – they are colleagues, both respectable, it doesn't arouse suspicion when they leave with Serena's hand tucked neatly in the crook of Bernie's elbow and head off together.

‘Oh, isn't it wonderful to be away?’ Serena asks, smiling as she breathes in the sea air.

‘Utterly,’ Bernie agrees, gazing at her.

Out of sight, sheltered behind a groyne, they kiss softly.

‘You'll come to my room later?’

‘As long as the coast is clear,’ Bernie promises, and kisses her again before they reluctantly pull apart and continue their walk.

They dine together again in the evening, afterwards sit and listen to a mediocre string quartet. Serena goes up to her room first, Bernie scowling playfully at having to endure the music a little longer. Long enough that she doesn't appear to be following Serena.

Later Bernie taps quietly on Serena's bedroom door and then lets herself in, as they agreed she would. Serena, already in her nightdress, smiles warmly, holds out a hand, kisses her and then pulls her close, nestles against her and sighs. Their arms slip around each other, and Bernie strokes the long plait of hair reaching down Serena's back. After a few peaceful minutes just breathing each other in Serena presses a kiss to Bernie's neck. Another, then raises her head to trail her lips along Bernie's jaw. Bernie twists her head so she can capture them with her own.

‘Impatient, Dr. Wolfe?’ Serena teases.

Bernie doesn't reply, just draws her closer and kisses her, runs her hands along Serena's sides, fingers brushing the edges of her breasts.

Serena reaches between them to undo Bernie's collar, drops it to the floor. Undoes the buttons of her shirt, pushes the braces from her shoulders, pulls the shirt tails from her trousers.

Bernie pushes her backwards, walks them towards the bed.

‘The rest, off,’ Serena demands as her legs meet the mattress.

‘And yours,’ Bernie smiles, eyes glinting.

‘Mm,’ Serena agrees.

They settle beside each other, naked. Serena wastes no time shifting closer, kissing her fiercely, slipping her hand down Bernie's body and trailing her fingers through her wetness with a soft moan, delighting in Bernie's gasp.

‘Serena,’ she says, in a strangled voice.

‘You've been wanting this as much as I have,’ Serena murmurs.

‘Can't stop thinking about you,’ Bernie admits. She teases Serena with light touches across her breasts and down her stomach before mirroring Serena's movements between her legs, twisting her hand to find just the right spot.

‘Me neither,’ Serena agrees, breathless, voice low with want. ‘Thinking about you, that is. Oh, Bernie.’

*

‘Bernie, dearest?’ Serena says as they lie together, warm and sated and aching deliciously, fingers tracing idle patterns across each other's skin.

‘Hm?’

‘Will you marry me?’

She feels Bernie go still, raises her head from where it rests above her heart so she can look at her. Bernie doesn't meet her gaze, is staring determinedly at the ceiling.

‘It's what we would do if you truly were a man, isn't it? And seeing as no one else knows that you aren't, I fail to see why we should be deprived of that happiness.’

When Bernie still says nothing Serena feels herself begin to panic, her pulse quickening. She has misread things. Bernie does not feel the way she does. Bernie has not fallen entirely, irreversibly in love with her. Bernie did not just feel herself come more truly alive than she ever recalls feeling. Bernie does not want her. But when she tries to move away Bernie holds her firmly in place, looks deep into her eyes and then up at the ceiling again.

‘And what if some man – some real man – should come into your life and sweep you off your feet?’

‘That isn't going to happen,’ Serena says firmly. Her worry subsides, the source of Bernie's reluctance now clear.

‘You can't know that.’

‘Yes I can. I love you, Berenice Wolfe. I love you for who you are, not for your body – delicious as it is. I’ve never felt like this before, about anyone. And I can't imagine ever feeling like this again.’

Bernie gazes at her, eyes wide with longing and disbelief.

‘You, my darling Bernie,’ Serena says earnestly, cupping Bernie's face with her hand. ‘You are everything I have ever hoped for or desired in a partner. The fact that you're a woman changes nothing.’

Serena smiles softly, and finally Bernie smiles in return. She slides both hands into Serena's now messy and tangled hair, draws her down and kisses her tenderly.

‘Yes,’ Bernie murmurs when their lips part.

‘Hm?’ Serena asks, dazed by the feel of Bernie's body beneath hers, Bernie's lips against hers, Bernie's fingers on her scalp.

‘Yes, I will marry you.’

Serena's face lights up in a broad smile. ‘You will?’

‘How could I not, when I love you so much?’


	2. Year of the Peaceful Wolf, Ramtops, Discworld

Serena is settling the goats for the night, throwing her old, tatty velvet cloak over them to guard against the winter’s cold, when a noise from outside the shed makes her pause. Her cat, engaged in stalking mice in the straw, looks up too, ears pricked and whiskers twitching, prey forgotten. The goats continue their never ending chewing, and for a moment Serena wonders if she imagined it.

But then there it is again, a sort of dragging sound, like someone's towing a heavy weight through the snow.

Serena quietly slips back into the cottage, takes the poker from beside the fire with the softest of metallic scrapings, crosses to the back door and pushes it open.

Just short of the door is a heap of snow-dusted black, wearing a crumpled but definitely pointy hat and with a broom clutched in one outstretched hand.

'What on Disc?' she mutters, leaning the poker against the wall and hurrying to crouch at the witch's side. 'Come on,' she says, slipping an arm around her and dragging her half upright. 'You're going to have to give me some help,' she scolds, and feels the other woman shake with the effort. She isn't capable of much though, leans heavily on Serena who uses all her strength to get her out of the snow and over the threshold.

Somehow they make it into the kitchen. Serena deposits her in a chair in front of the fire, pushes the door shut against the wind driven snow, sets the kettle on to boil and fetches an armful of blankets.

'Need to get these off,' she says softly, unwrapping the violently shivering woman from her sodden cloak. 'You'll catch your death – if you haven't already.'

She strips off every wet layer, tucks the blankets around her tightly. When she turns her back to make the tea the cat jumps up and curls in her lap. Serena fixes it with a curious glare; it's usually an antisocial bugger, she wonders what's special about this woman.

Later, once she's coaxed a mug of warm, sweet tea inside her unexpected guest and half hauled her up the stairs she sleeps pressed against her, sharing as much of her body heat as she can, the cat curled above their feet, purring.

*

'Berenice?' she mutters when the blonde witch finally speaks over a breakfast of porridge with fresh goat’s milk and honey from the pantry. 'What sort of a name is Berenice?'

'Mine,' she replies mildly.

'Bit of a mouthful.'

She shrugs. 'You can call me Bernie, if you prefer.'

'Hm.'

*

'I'd better be getting on then,' Bernie says later that morning, hauling herself out of her chair.

Serena is about to agree, feet already carrying her towards the door. After all, two witches can barely survive in neighbouring villages, let alone in the same house. But she's been watching Bernie critically all morning, practised eye automatically noting her pale face, the wheeze accompanying every breath, the tense shoulders, the almost hidden wince when she shifts. Not to mention the clearly swollen wrist. She sighs: she is, after all, a healer first and foremost.

'No,' she says, causing Bernie to whip around with a pained hiss and stare at her. 'You're clearly not well. I can't send you back out in that.'

Bernie is tight-lipped about what happened but allows Serena to examine her. She barely makes a sound when she rubs salve across her shoulders, her fingers pressing into sore muscles. Lets Serena listen to her chest, sticks out her tongue, coughs on demand. Waits while Serena rummages in the pantry and swallows the bitter potion she hands her with a grimace but no complaint.

‘I could have sweetened it,’ Serena points out mildly, turning her attention to Bernie's swollen wrist.

‘I'm a big girl, I can take my medicine,’ Bernie retorts. But she accepts a mug of honey-laced tea gratefully, sips while it's too hot in her eagerness to wash away the taste.

‘Ow,’ she says when Serena manipulates her hand.

‘She does feel pain,’ Serena says dryly. ‘Just a nasty sprain, I think. Anywhere else?’

Bernie shakes her head, but Serena fixes her with a practised glare.

‘Fine,’ she sighs, standing up gingerly. ‘My hip.’

Serena delves beneath layers of fabric until she reaches bare skin and finds an angry bruise. ‘Ouch.’

Bernie sips her tea while Serena disappears into the pantry again. ‘Just patch me up and I'll be out of your hair,’ she calls.

‘And how, pray, do you propose to do that? You're in no fit state to be tramping through the snow, and flying with that chest would likely kill you.’

‘I don't want to be a bother,’ Bernie mutters as Serena's gentle hands rub another salve onto her hip and then carefully replace all her layers.

‘No bother,’ Serena says firmly, pushing Bernie back into the chair and bandaging her wrist. ‘We're two grown women, I'm sure we can manage not to tear each other's throats out.’

*

A snowstorm keeps them in for the next few days. Serena spends the time brewing potions, largely unpleasant smells filling the cottage. Bernie reluctantly rests, after Serena has glared and snapped at her so many times she decides it's easier just to obey. She won't be here long, after all, and in this weather she can't leave so why antagonise her host any more than is necessary? And she _is_ tired, finds herself rising late and then dozing in the rocking chair beside the fire, waking covered in a blanket that wasn't around her when she sat down.

*

When she wakes to a clear sky Bernie decides it's time to leave. She puts on her hat and cloak, picks up her broomstick in her uninjured hand and steps outside, pulling the door closed behind her.

Serena watches her slow progress. Watches as she collapses onto the snow-heaped bench and buries her face in her hands. Turns away when she sees her shoulders start to shake.

She doesn't say anything when Bernie comes back inside, leans her broom beside Serena's again, unpins her hat and hangs up her cloak. Resists the urge to rush to her side, because she's wheezing harder, limping worse, good hand reaching for the wall and then the table to steady herself. She busies herself in the pantry as Bernie sinks into a chair, gives her some time to recover before joining her.

‘I've got rather behind on some basic winter remedies. It's been a harsh one this year, I've used more than usual. Another pair of hands would come in useful.’

Bernie doesn't look at her, can't bear seeing the inevitable pity in her eyes, but nods.

*

The next morning is clear as well. Serena goes out to do a round of villages and farms, checks on the young and the elderly, on her expectant mothers and regular patients. She comes home in the dark to find a pot of stew bubbling on the fire, and Bernie dozing in what has already become her chair with the cat on her knee. The kitchen looks considerably cleaner than when she left, and a peek at her stores shows Bernie has been continuing yesterday's work.

'I think someone's been overdoing it,' Serena says softly.

Bernie opens her eyes blearily. 'You're back,' she murmurs, rubbing sleep from her eyes, pushing the cat from her lap and getting up with only a slight wince. 'Sorry, didn't mean to fall asleep.'

‘You're not well,’ Serena chides. ‘Rest is good.’

Bernie humphs in response.

‘You're to do less tomorrow,’ Serena persists. ‘You're not a god, you need time to heal.’

She watches as Bernie tries to ladle out the stew one-handed, walks up beside her and wordlessly takes the bowl.

‘Feel useless,’ Bernie mutters.

‘Well you're not,’ Serena says firmly, sitting down and tucking into her dinner. ‘Lovely to come home to a hot meal, thank you.’

‘It's the least I can do,’ Bernie says. She smiles – just a small one, barely there, but it lights up her face and Serena feels something lurch in her chest.

*

Soon the weather has warmed just enough to turn snow to barely above freezing rain. Serena got caught in the downpour on her flight home, came in soaked and shivering to find Bernie hard at work in the kitchen, surrounded by mess. It was the last straw after a week in which Bernie, now feeling considerably better and getting restless, has been under Serena's feet when she's been at home and creating mess when she's been out. Already made grumpy by the cold and rain Serena had snapped, words coming out harsher than she really intended.

They ate in stony silence and Bernie had watched, contrite, worrying her lip between her teeth, as Serena stomped upstairs.

Now Bernie is lying in bed listening to the driving rain, to the window rattling and whistling in the wind. In the lulls between gusts she can hear creaking from the next room as Serena tosses and turns. She sighs heavily, breath catching in her throat and making her cough. Then she slips out of bed, shivering slightly, and pads next door. The floorboards just inside Serena's room squeak slightly and Bernie sees her go still, pretending to be asleep.

‘I'm sorry,’ Bernie says softly.

Serena opens her eyes and looks at her. ‘Me too,’ she sighs. ‘Truce?’

‘Truce.’ Bernie steps closer, takes her outstretched hand. ‘Gods, Serena, you're still frozen! Come on, shove over.’

Serena obeys, shuffling to make space for Bernie to slip under the covers beside her. She hesitates a moment before nestling against her, before draping her arm across Bernie's middle. Bernie makes no complaint when icy toes nudge against hers.

Serena comes back cold the next evening too, to an immaculate kitchen and a tidy pantry. When they go up to bed Bernie lingers outside Serena's room. ‘Would you, uh, would you like me to keep you warm again?’

‘You don't mind?’

‘I'd be glad to.’

Serena turns to her, with a smile that lights her eyes and that Bernie can't help returning. ‘Then yes, please.’

Bernie never returns to her own narrow bed, instead slips under the covers and settles beside Serena every night. Gets so used to it that she forgets she hasn't been sleeping with Serena in her arms her entire life.

*

After another week Bernie has almost stopped wheezing.

‘Much better,’ Serena says approvingly once she's listened to her chest. ‘Your wrist’s looking good too. Still sore?’ she asks, carefully twisting it.

‘A bit,’ Bernie admits.

Serena caresses Bernie's hand, strokes each of her long fingers gently. Bernie watches from under her fringe, transfixed by the soft expression on Serena's face. And then Serena blinks, coughs, lets go and grasps her own hand instead, so tight Bernie can see her knuckles whiten.

‘Right,’ she says, moving away. ‘Yes.’

‘Are you going to bandage me up again?’

‘What?’ Serena turns back, frowning. ‘No. Well, hm, maybe.’

‘I think you should,’ Bernie says, despite how frustrated she's been getting, longing to feel Serena's touch again. ‘If only to remind me to be careful with it,’ she reasons.

‘Probably wise,’ Serena agrees. She picks up a fresh length of fabric and takes Bernie's hand in hers.

When she's finished, Bernie laces their fingers. ‘You have very skilled hands,’ she says softly. ‘I was lucky to end up on your doorstep.’

Their eyes meet, brown and brown. Serena means to tease that she's been nothing but trouble but is stopped by the warmth in Bernie's eyes, the tenderness in her touch. Instead she smiles, squeezes Bernie's hand gently. ‘Feeling’s mutual.’

*

The next morning Serena grudgingly allows Bernie to accompany her on the day’s visits.

‘I won't get in the way,’ she promises.

‘And you'll stop if you get tired or sore?’

‘I have no doubt that you'll make me,’ Bernie teases.

And Serena wants to say no, wants to tell her to stay at home (and when, exactly, did she start thinking of _her_ cottage as _their_ home?) and out from under her feet. But she looks so excited, and there's a light in her eyes that Serena can't bear to extinguish.

‘Alright then,’ she relents.

To start with Bernie is largely silent, just another pair of hands and eyes (eyes that, if Serena were to turn from her work and look, she would find filled with admiration). But with Mrs. Jenkinson she makes a suggestion that directly opposes Serena's own, that earns her a glare and, when they step outside, a sharp word.

She spends the rest of the day meekly helping, handing over herbs and bottles without a word. But later she supports Serena vehemently when Mr. Thomas argues with her, puts herself between the big, scared man and Serena without a thought and refuses to move until he’s calm. Steps aside to allow Serena to treat him and is astonished when instead Serena hands over her bag and stands back to watch.

*

As the weather warms even more Bernie accompanies Serena almost every day. Sometimes she even goes out alone, giving Serena chance to catch up on the secret remedies she refuses to share the recipes for. And if Serena flies off alone she always comes home to a warm meal, a soft smile, a willing ear.

They don't always agree, mostly manage not to argue within earshot of patients, sometimes spend flights back to the cottage bickering or in tense silence. But mostly they work well together, and Serena wonders where the usual professional tension is, why on Disc she's willing to hand over patients to another witch without so much as a second thought.

One evening, when they're ready to fly back, Serena's broomstick refuses to start. Bernie, already airborne, lands and wordlessly holds out a hand. Serena climbs on behind her, spends the entire flight pressed against her back, arms tight around her waist. She puts off going to see the dwarves as long as she can, pretends to them both that it's because she's busy and even with Bernie's assistance there's a lot to do. Only admits to herself, in the dark, when their positions are reversed and Bernie is pressed against her back, arm snug around her waist, that it's because she enjoys how it feels, enjoys being so close to her and is glad of the excuse.

*

They spend gradually lightening evenings sat in front of the fire, the cat on one of their laps, discussing the day’s work, seeking and offering advice. And every night, once the fire is banked and the goats settled, they retire to bed together, fall asleep with limbs tangled, Serena draped half across Bernie or curled in her arms, Bernie wrapped around her, nose nuzzled into Serena's hair.

Somewhere along the way Serena starts dropping a goodnight kiss to Bernie's cheek; after a few nights Bernie reciprocates, drifting a little closer to the corner of Serena's mouth each time. And then one night Serena kisses Bernie not on the cheek but on the lips, warm and soft and tender. Bernie's hand slides around the back of Serena's neck and into her hair, holding her close, and they both smile.

*

When spring properly arrives, and Bernie's chest is clear and she's put some weight back on her slender frame, is walking without even the trace of a limp and has the full use of her hand again, neither of them suggests that she should leave.


	3. 1942, Bletchley Park

‘Serena!’

‘Jean,’ Serena smiles, turning around. ‘What?’ she asks, face falling when she sees her colleague’s expression.

‘Oh, it’s nothing bad.’

‘Your face says otherwise.’

'I've just been to see Hanssen.  Someone new starting tomorrow, in your team.'

'Go on.'

Jean looks around, lowers her voice so as not to be overheard. ‘Ex SOE. Injured on duty.’

‘Ah.’

‘I'm sure it won't be that terrible.’

‘Field agent, injured badly enough to be taken off active duty? No, you're right, I'm sure he'll be _delighted_ to join us,’ she says dryly.

‘She,’ Jean corrects her, glancing at the slip of paper in her hand. ‘Miss Berenice Wolfe.’

‘Wonderful. Well, thank you, Miss O’Brien, for bringing such joy to my evening,’ Serena says, rolling her eyes and walking away.

‘Come on, Serena,’ Jean says, falling into step with her. ‘By all accounts she has a good brain.’

‘We'll see,’ Serena mutters.

*

There's a long, lean woman with a head of messy blonde curls sat on the edge of Serena's desk when she walks into the hut next morning. She's impressed: the rest of her team are nowhere to be seen yet.

Serena crosses the room, walks up beside her. ‘You must be Miss Wolfe,’ she says, lightly touching her shoulder.

The other woman leaps up as if shocked, stares at Serena with panic-widened eyes, chest heaving rapidly.

‘Alright,’ Serena murmurs, frowning and reaching to steady her.

‘Sorry,’ she breathes, leaning against the desk again. ‘I, um– I didn't see you. Can't really see out of this eye,’ she adds, long fingers gesturing to the left side of her face.

‘Ah, sorry. I, uh, I didn't know. Didn't sneak up on you on purpose.’

‘I'm sure.’ She smiles briefly, then holds out her hand. ‘Berenice Wolfe. Bernie.’

‘Serena Campbell,’ she replies, taking it and noting the firm grip. ‘I understand you're joining us from SOE.’

Bernie's face darkens, and Serena sees her shoulders tense. ‘Yes,’ she mutters, eyes downcast.

‘I'm sorry,’ Serena apologises again. ‘I imagine we're rather a let down after that.’

Bernie mutters something unintelligible.

‘Oh, come now,’ Serena says, injecting false brightness into her voice. ‘Long days in stuffy huts, endlessly shifting codes to break, and as much weak tea as you can drink. What's not to like?’

Bernie looks up at her, and Serena winks. After a moment Bernie laughs, a honking sound that makes Serena raise her eyebrows in surprise before joining in.

They're still giggling when the other members of Serena's team walk in, the girls and boys she's taken under her wing. She doesn't miss the way Bernie turns her head to see them properly as they both draw breath and compose themselves.

‘Good morning,’ Serena says jovially. ‘I'd like you all to meet Miss Wolfe, who will be joining our merry band as of today. Miss Wolfe, may I introduce Raf, Morven, Arthur and Jasmine.’

‘It's nice to meet you all,’ Bernie says automatically.

‘Raf, if you could show her the ropes please?’

‘Of course, Miss Campbell.’

Serena winks at Bernie again before turning away, and Bernie finds herself smiling. Maybe this won't be so bad after all.

*

Serena realises at lunchtime, when she sees Bernie leaving after the others, why she had arrived so early – not from a desire to impress with her punctuality, but to hide the fact that she walks with a heavy limp and a cane.

‘I didn't want your first impression of me to be of a cripple,’ she mutters, ashamed, when Serena falls into step beside her, careful to approach on her right side. ‘Or to be bombarded with questions about how it happened.’

‘I judge people on their minds, not their bodies, Miss Wolfe. I couldn't care less, as long as you are able to make a positive contribution to my team’s work. And as to how it happened, that's your story to tell as and when you choose. Anyone pries too much, you send them straight to me.’

Bernie looks at her, expects to see barely veiled curiosity, but Serena just smiles.

‘As and when you choose,’ she repeats. ‘Or not at all.’

Bernie feels an unfamiliar urge to tell this woman, this stranger, about her life, confidentiality be damned. Doesn't, remains silent. Serena doesn't push.

*

Bernie is angry. Angry, and frustrated – at her body, at being here, at having failed. Because that, Serena thinks, is how she sees it. Her body has failed her and she has failed her country, failed in her duty. She doesn't say anything, of course; Serena quickly learns that Berenice Wolfe is a woman of few words, a perfect example of good old British reserve. But she knows, nevertheless. Sees it in her tense shoulders and straight spine, in the way she bites her lip and stares at the floor when she struggles, when she's reminded of what she's lost, what she can no longer do. In the look in her eyes, like she feels she doesn't belong here, will never belong here.

Bernie hurts, too. She hides it well but Serena grew up seeing her father concealing the pain of an old injury. She doesn't know what she can do to help without making Bernie feel weak, without damaging her pride. So she does nothing except watch, nothing except silently note when Bernie moves more carefully, when her face is tight, when she's even quieter than usual.

Until one icy day, when Bernie comes back from a smoke break leaning so heavily on her cane, her face so pale and drawn, that Serena can't keep her concern from showing.

She lets her be until the end of their shift, waves the others off and watches Bernie close her eyes and take deep breaths, clearly trying to gather the strength to move.

‘What happened?’ she asks softly, sitting beside her.

‘Slipped,’ Bernie replies tightly, not looking at her. ‘Lost my footing and just – went down.’ She sighs. ‘Stupid, stupid,’ she mutters, knocking her forehead against her clasped hands.

‘Anything I can do?’

Bernie shakes her head.

‘At least let me walk out with you. No one will think anything of us leaving arm in arm.’

‘I don't want your pity.’

‘I don't pity you, Miss Wolfe,’ Serena hisses. ‘I'm trying to help you maintain this– this façade of being fine that you insist on. But if you'd rather I left you to wallow then so be it.’ She pushes her chair back and stands, but is stopped from stalking away by a hand on her arm.

‘Sorry.’

Serena turns back to see Bernie looking at her sheepishly, and smiles gently.

‘It can't be easy.’

Bernie shakes her head.

‘Shall we go?’ Serena suggests.

‘Yes.’

Serena moves away, gives her space to stand then offers her arm. Bernie still hesitates a moment before resting her hand lightly in the crook of Serena's elbow.

‘I won't break, you know,’ Serena smiles, covering Bernie's hand with her own. ‘Stronger than I look.’

‘I don't doubt it,’ Bernie smiles. And after a few steps she cautiously grips tighter, leans into Serena a little.

‘There, see,’ Serena says, patting her hand. ‘Might not be an action woman but I've still got your back.’

‘Not exactly much of an action woman either, not any more,’ Bernie replies ruefully. ‘But I've got yours too.’

The next day Serena stands close to Bernie, leans over her work as if checking something, and slips a hot water bottle into her lap.

‘Thought it might help, with the aches,’ she murmurs when Bernie looks at her in surprise.

‘Oh,’ Bernie breathes, fingers stroking the sky blue knitted case. ‘Thank you.’

‘You're very welcome,’ Serena smiles, hand lingering on Bernie's shoulder a moment before she moves away.

*

Serena's roommate leaves at around the same time as the roof of Bernie's attic room springs a leak. She arrives for her shift late and breathless, hair damp and even more tousled than usual, wearing a decidedly un-Bernie blouse and cardigan.

‘Everything's soaked,’ she grumbles to Serena, tugging at the loose cuffs. ‘Had to borrow these from Mrs. Shaw.’

Serena slips away at the start of her lunch break, seeks out Mrs. Allen who organises billeting for the staff. Slips into her usual seat opposite Bernie with a triumphant grin.

‘I've found you somewhere new to stay,’ she says in a sing-song voice, sipping the tea Bernie pushes towards her.

‘You have?’

‘Mm-hm.’

‘Where?’

‘I'll show you later,’ she says with a wink. ‘But I think you'll like it.’

At the end of their shift Serena, still tight lipped about Bernie's new home, accompanies her to collect her belongings then leads her back to a cottage in the village closest to the house.

‘What strings did you have to pull for this?’ Bernie asks as they walk up the path. ‘Wait, what are you doing?’ she adds, when instead of knocking Serena opens the door and steps inside.

Serena ignores her, but reaches for her hand and drags her in too.

‘Mrs. Hill?’ she calls.

‘In here, dear.’

Serena tows Bernie behind her into a warm, homely kitchen where a grey-haired woman is standing over the stove. She lets go of Bernie's hand and brushes a kiss to the woman's cheek.

‘Mm, smells delicious as always.’

‘Charmer,’ Mrs. Hill scolds, turning around. ‘And who might this be?’

‘Bernie. She's a colleague of mine, she's been flooded out and I–’

‘You suggested she could stay here, now Laura's gone?’

‘Precisely.’

‘Well you're most welcome, Bernie,’ Mrs. Hill smiles. ‘Why don't you go and get settled before dinner?’

‘You brought me to where you live?’ Bernie asks, following Serena up the stairs and trying to keep her eyes from lingering on the sway of her hips.

‘Mostly selfish,’ Serena admits, ‘I'd far rather share with you than a new girl I don't know. But I also thought it would be easier for you,’ she adds hesitantly. ‘Being closer.’

‘Oh. Right,’ Bernie says, pausing. ‘Wait, sharing?’

She chases after Serena, into a room furnished with twin beds, freezes in the doorway.

‘Well come in, then. Let's get those wet clothes hung up, see if we can get something dry for you to wear tomorrow.’

‘My earlier question still stands,’ Bernie says later, as they're sitting up in bed reading. ‘How did you get a billet this close?’

‘I've been here a long time. There weren't all that many of us to start with.’

Bernie nods. ‘They seem nice, the Hills.’

‘They take good care of me,’ Serena smiles.

‘Thank you,’ Bernie says.

‘You're welcome,’ Serena replies, looking over at her. ‘I just hope you can cope with me here as well as at work,’ she teases.

‘I'm sure I shall manage,’ Bernie smiles.

*

A month later, when Bernie has finally paid heed to Serena's nagging and started to neatly fold her clothes rather than drop them in a crumpled heap, when they have swapped books, when Mrs. Hill has banished Bernie from the kitchen for making too much mess, Serena is called away for a maiden aunt’s funeral.

‘You'll take care of them?’ Serena asks as they part.

‘Of course,’ Bernie smiles. She is taken aback when Serena suddenly hugs her, but quickly gathers her wits and wraps an arm around her. ‘See you soon,’ she murmurs, watching until Serena is out of sight then shaking her head sharply and heading on her way.

Serena arrives back mid-shift. She has spent the entire journey looking forward to getting back, to seeing the woman who has quickly become her best friend. The woman she has missed far too much, spent far too much time thinking about. When she enters the hut she pauses, eyes seeking Bernie. But what she sees makes her freeze, makes her seethe with anger and a sharp stab of betrayal. For Bernie is sat in _her_ seat, slouching as if it belongs to her. She watches a moment longer, as Bernie allocates tasks to the rest of the team like she's always been in charge of them, then stalks over.

‘Serena,’ Bernie smiles, looking up at the sound of her footsteps. ‘There's a sight for sore eyes.’

‘Miss Wolfe,’ she replies coolly. ‘You've made yourself comfortable, I see.’

Bernie jumps up and opens her mouth to explain, but Serena cuts her off.

‘Don't bother,’ she snaps, voice low and harsh. She looks away, down at the desk, waits until Bernie has taken her usual seat before sinking into her own, still warm, chair.

She is cold and abrupt for the rest of the shift, primarily towards Bernie but also to the others; they must have been complicit in allowing Bernie to take her place. And after all she's done for them, too. After all she's done for Bernie: befriending her, trusting her, bringing her into her billet, the place that has become her home. She leaves in a huff, strides down to the village much faster than Bernie can walk, busies herself helping Mrs. Hill in the kitchen. Says as little to Bernie as possible without being entirely impolite, doesn't meet her eye. If she had she would have seen confusion, concern, apology. As it is her imagination fills Bernie with ambition and treachery and duplicity.

Serena pleads a headache to Mrs. Hill, goes upstairs early and determines to feign sleep when Bernie joins her. But Bernie follows too quickly, taps on the door cautiously before pushing it open.

‘I brought tea,’ she says needlessly, passing one steaming mug to Serena and settling cross-legged on her own bed.

Serena forces a smile, takes a sip. The silence between them is almost painful but it has to be Bernie who breaks it, she thinks cruelly, knowing how little the other woman likes to talk.

‘So, are you going to tell me what I've done to upset you?’ she asks eventually.

‘Oh, I think you know,’ Serena spits.

Bernie stares at her blankly, mind whirling.

‘You've just been waiting for an opportunity, haven't you? A chance to take my place.’ She grips the mug hard, knuckles whitening. ‘I thought you were my friend.’

‘I am, Serena.’

Serena lets out a harsh laugh. ‘Usurp all your _friends,_ do you?’

‘I haven't usurped–’

‘What would you call it, then, hm? Taking my place, running my team?’

‘Oh,’ Bernie breathes.

‘Yes, _oh_.’

‘I, um, I didn't want to,’ Bernie says meekly. ‘But Hanssen asked for someone to oversee them while you were away, and Self was, oh, far too keen for my liking, so I, uh, I volunteered before he could. I'm sure he's got designs on your job, I just wanted to make sure he couldn't get his slimy hands on it.’

Serena flushes, mortified, stares at her tea. ‘I'm sorry,’ she mutters. ‘Jumped to conclusions. I should've known you–’

‘It's fine, Serena.’

‘No, it isn't. You're my friend, I should have trusted you.’

‘Honestly, Serena, don't worry about it.’

Serena finally looks at her, sees her warm eyes and gentle smile.

‘Still friends?’ she asks in a small voice.

‘Always,’ Bernie replies. She reaches across the space between their beds and Serena takes her hand, fingers lingering a little longer than necessary.

And then Bernie reaches under her pillow and pulls out a paper bag. ‘I've been saving this,’ she says conspiratorially, opening it and revealing a bar of chocolate.

Serena's eyes widen. ‘Didn't know you had such self restraint,’ she teases.

‘Oh, I'm just full of surprises,’ Bernie grins, peeling back the wrapper. She snaps off a row of squares and holds it out to Serena.

‘Oh no, no, it's yours, I couldn't.’

‘I insist. I want to share it with you, with my friend.’

Serena relents and takes it, breaks off a single square and nibbles the corner. Bernie watches as she lets it melt on her tongue, as she savours it, as she sighs with pleasure. Forces herself to look away as a hot flare of something forbidden rushes through her.

*

A month later again, this one filled with too many frustrating shifts and too few successes, with gentle strolls arm in arm as the weather warms and the stiffness in Bernie's leg eases, with more shared books and tea and chocolate. It's Morven’s birthday, and she invites the whole team to spend their day off at her parents’ house to celebrate. Bernie is reluctant, still doesn't quite consider herself fully to be one of them yet, but Morven insists. And later so does Serena, and her eyes are so hopeful that Bernie finds herself unable to refuse.

They have a pleasant day, even if the small house in Stepney is crammed with far too many people. Share an already tiny piece of cake to make it go further. Stifle giggles as Raf unsuccessfully attempts to flirt with Morven’s cousin. Cheer loudly when a nervous Arthur proposes and a crying Morven accepts. Bernie can't help glancing at Serena, only to find Serena is already looking at her, something in her eyes that Bernie can't quite put a name to. Serena shifts a little closer, slides the hand resting on Bernie's elbow down her arm until, hidden by the fold of her cardigan, their fingers tangle. Bernie lets out a breath of surprise and then, cautiously, tightens her grip. Serena responds by rubbing her thumb over Bernie's knuckles, and she feels her skin tingle.

And then all too soon it's time to leave. They lag behind the others, arm in arm, Bernie's leg an excuse for being both slow and close. When they find themselves alone in a side street, Bernie halts. Serena turns to her, concerned, breath hitching when she sees Bernie's expression. They lean closer, lips a mere inch apart when Raf’s voice makes them spring apart.

‘There you are. Thought we'd lost you for a minute.’

‘Can't get rid of us that easily,’ Serena says, fighting to keep her voice steady.

She watches as he chases after the others, waits until they're alone again then turns to Bernie, who's doing an excellent job of examining her shoes. She reaches for her hand and Bernie jumps at the contact, looks at her nervously, swallows hard.

Serena's heart is racing, her whole body trembling. Bernie looks terrified. Serena _feels_ terrified. But also desperate to drag Bernie against her and kiss her.

‘Are you coming?’ Morven calls. ‘We'll miss the train.’

‘Later,’ Serena promises quietly, eyes fixed on Bernie's, and squeezes her hand.

All Bernie can do is nod. Try and quell the fizzing inside her. Allow Serena to lead her after the others, their hands still linked.

*

It's awkward, when they get back, everything stilted and painfully tense. They plead tiredness when Mr. and Mrs. Hill offer them tea, head straight upstairs. Visit the bathroom down the hall in turn, brush their teeth and get changed. Serena comes back to find Bernie standing uncertainly in the middle of the room, between their two beds. She hesitates then turns out the lamp, waits for their eyes to adjust to the darkness then slowly walks over to her. Reaches out and slips one hand into Bernie's, raises the other and hesitates again before gently touching Bernie's cheek. Their gazes lock, each silently asking and answering that yes, this is alright. Bernie's empty hand dangles uselessly at her side. Until Serena slowly draws their faces closer and kisses her.

Her lips are so soft Bernie is sure she must be dreaming. Well, if she is then she'd best make the most of it before she wakes up. So she kisses back, slides her hand around the back of Serena's neck to tangle in her hair, holding her close. Lets go of Serena's hand so she can wrap her arm around her waist and drag their bodies flush. She doesn't know which of them makes the tiny moans and sighs. Quite frankly doesn't care.

They separate, panting, rest their foreheads together, both smile nervously. Bernie knows her eyes must be wide with wonder, can't help it.

‘You look like you can't believe that just happened,’ Serena murmurs.

‘I can't.’

‘Me neither,’ Serena admits, thumb caressing Bernie's cheekbone.

‘I want to do it again,’ Bernie says bravely. ‘I– I never want to stop.’

Bernie barely has time to register Serena's groan before they're kissing again, fierce and desperate and needy. They don't stop until Serena has walked them to the nearest bed (Bernie's, unmade), until Serena's hands have found the bare skin of Bernie's stomach under her pyjama top, until Bernie is caressing Serena's nipples through her nightgown.

‘We should stop,’ Bernie says breathlessly, reluctantly.

‘I suppose,’ Serena agrees. But she doesn't remove her hands, doesn't move away. ‘Why?’

‘Well it, uh,’ Bernie fumbles, distracted by Serena's lips which have somehow found their way to her jawline, to the side of her neck, behind her ear. ‘It's a bit fast?’ she offers.

‘We've been flirting for months,’ Serena murmurs against her skin before raising her head, fingers still tracing patterns across Bernie's stomach, edging up her ribcage. ‘And neither of us is getting any younger,’ she teases.

‘Speak for yourself,’ Bernie retorts. And then, seriously: ‘You're sure?’

‘Very.’

The last of Bernie's resolve crumbles under Serena's touch, Serena's gaze, Serena’s certainty. ‘Well then.’

They stare at each other a moment longer then shed their nightwear and scramble into the narrow bed together, pressed close out of necessity but mostly out of desire.

‘Oh Bernie,’ Serena whispers at the feel of their skin, their breasts, their hips, all in delicious contact for the first time.

‘Serena,’ Bernie replies, running her fingers down her spine and moaning softly as Serena arches into her. ‘Serena,’ she repeats, and then falls silent save for soft moans as they kiss again.


	4. Ninth Pass, Holby Weyr, Pern

The queen is dead, Haranth so badly Threadscored that dragon and rider vanished _between_ forever. B’renice sinks into a chair, tries to block out the keening of the dragons.

 _What now?_ she thinks, dropping her head into her hands.

For this should not have happened. None of their golds is anywhere near mature, there is no one to take the place of the senior pair.

_What now?_

*

B’renice always feels that she is the last to know what’s going on in the Weyr. As the only female bronze rider (in all of Pern, not just at Holby) her quarters are a little apart from the others, far enough to slow the spread of rumours and news. And, as the only female bronze rider (in all of Pern, as many of the others are always quick to remind her) she is looked down on, seen as an oddity at best and a liability at worst. (For no reason, B’renice would be quick to point out. Despite the prejudice she and Kellenth are excellent at their job, on a par with the wingleaders – a position she knows she will never hold, regardless of their skill.)

As always she hears it from Kellenth, not through any official channels. Not like the rest of the bronze riders.

A new gold is coming, the most senior pair at Benden Weyr apart from Lessa and Ramoth.

 _Not that that will change anything for us,_ B’renice thinks bitterly.

But she’s wrong.

*

B’renice’s first impression of Serena is that she’s beautiful – catch-and-hold-the-eye beautiful. (She’s not the only one to notice. Every man in the Weyr stares at her openly, as do some of the women, mapping her figure, wondering just what might be concealed under the vivid red tunic. She is, however, the only one Serena winks at when she catches her eye, causing B’renice to blush and drop her gaze to the floor.)

Her second impression is that Serena defies convention by wearing her hair cropped short, even shorter than B’renice’s own, and she wonders if this defiance spreads to other areas of her life too. (‘Much more practical,’ she will tell B’renice later, when her fingers are raking through it, tugging at the short strands.)

Her third is that this is clearly a woman used to politics, a woman well aware of her attractiveness, used to charming and flirting as strategies to get what she wants. (The Weyrleader and senior bronze riders are fawning over her almost embarrassingly. B’renice wonders just what the new Weyrwoman is going to get them to agree to.)

Her fourth is that Serena is full of surprises.

*

Serena has heard of B’renice, of course, is intrigued to meet this lone female bronze rider. After all the pomp and official greetings are over, after she has smiled sweetly and fluttered her eyelashes at S’lef, the current Weyrleader, and the bronze riders clearly being set up as potential successors (hiding her distaste so it is apparent only to her gold dragon, Elliath), she refuses all offers of a place with them at the head table for dinner. Instead she strides past them all and straight up to B’renice.

‘Is this seat taken?’

B’renice stares up at her, taken aback. Serena finds herself immediately caught by the warmth of her dark eyes.

‘Uh, no,’ she manages. ‘Please.’

Serena sinks down beside her gratefully, lets out a deep sigh. ‘Pompous lot you have to put up with here,’ she murmurs, helping herself to tubers and roasted meat, pouring wine for them both. ‘I can’t imagine they make life easy for you.’

B’renice humphs noncommittally, unwilling to create more trouble for herself.

‘Things are going to change around here,’ Serena promises, a dangerous glint in her eyes, watching the spurned bronzes muttering to each other and throwing glances in their direction. ‘They’re all in for quite a shock.’

*

They’re caught in limbo, waiting for Elliath to rise in her mating flight. The business of the Weyr goes on – but B’renice suddenly finds herself rather more popular with her fellow bronze riders. For Serena has very visibly, very publicly befriended her. They eat together more often than not, unless Serena is entertaining important guests, spend much time talking. B’renice is under no illusion: she knows her peers, knows their apparent friendship is entirely politically motivated, strategic. No one wants to get on the wrong side of the new Weyrwoman especially when, by all accounts, she is imperious, haughty, quick to anger and slow to forgive.

‘Iron fist in a velvet glove,’ B’renice hears muttered time and again around the Weyr.

There is a worry too, an anxiousness about an untested pairing, an untested gold rider who has unexpectedly found herself with a Weyr of her own to run.

And, of course, there is the competition, the ambition to fly Elliath, to become Weyrleader.

So B’renice still finds herself at one remove from what’s really going on, however close she and Serena seem to be growing, for that is a contest she and Kellenth will never be a part of. It has always been made clear to her that while they may be suffered to fight Thread she and Kellenth must make themselves scarce when the queen rises, that Kellenth will never fly the queen.

She tries hard not to grow _too_ close. But the problem is, her first impression of Serena was entirely correct: she _is_ beautiful. Sometimes B’renice gets lost in her, loses track of what she’s saying because she’s captivated by her eyes, by the elegant movements of her fingers, by the way the evening light catches in her hair.

The other problem is that Serena is a shameless flirt, and B’renice is by no means left out of her attentions. So every time she tries to damp the growing flames of attraction, tries to tell herself that nothing will come of it, that the only possible result is that she will get hurt when she inevitably has to watch Serena with someone else at her side (in her bed), Serena is there with a touch of her hand, that spark in her eyes, that smile so unlike the polite one she offers to everyone else.

If B’renice were to allow herself to look closely, to really study Serena’s eyes when they’re together, she would see that she isn’t the only one longing, the only one wanting.

*

B’renice’s third impression of Serena was also correct: she is shrewd, politically savvy. She befriends the weyrfolk, learns their names and what they do, knows who to flutter her eyelashes at to get whatever it is that she wants. Befriends the harper and requests that he expand his repertoire from the old and stuffy to more recent compositions – much to his delight. (She isn’t blind to the distaste of the older, senior riders. Is well aware that Holby is a very traditional Weyr, that the harper has been unsuccessfully trying to introduce new songs for years. Smiles to herself that this is far from the biggest change she’s going to instigate.)

She finds out as much as she can about her dragonriders too. Befriends younger riders, those who are also forward looking, those whose resistance to change is less deep-seated. Those who do not find the idea of a female bronze rider or green rider or harper outlandish because they have grown up with B’renice, with Mirrim, with Menolly. She pays particular attention to the bronze riders, learns what she can from gossip, from Elliath, from B’renice.

She finds out what she can about B’renice too, augments what little she learns from the taciturn woman herself with snippets from her other sources. There is, unsurprisingly, a lot of gossip about her – but once Serena has weeded out the blatant falsehoods and made her way to the truth she concludes that her own impressions are, by and large, correct: B’renice is one of the best bronze riders at Holby, and were it not for a stubborn adherence to tradition and aversion to change she would have been made wingleader years ago. Serena knows her feelings for B’renice – her attraction, their growing closeness – are dangerous. But confirmation of B’renice’s skill, and of Kellenth’s speed and stamina, reassures her a little, gives her hope.

*

B’renice begins to worry that she has done something wrong, has unwittingly offended Serena in some way. The Weyrwoman has been spending less time with her recently, has been disappearing off alone for hours on end. She frets and frets, despite Kellenth assuring her time and again that Elliath tells him nothing has changed.

And then one day Serena calls all the bronze riders together. She’s wearing the same red tunic she wore when she arrived, a spot of brightness that draws every eye, and B’renice is reminded of that first glimpse, the first time their gazes caught, the first time they spoke.

‘Just a small announcement,’ Serena says. ‘But I wanted to make sure you were all aware of it. When Elliath rises I wish for _all_ Holby’s bronze riders and dragons to be present. And yes, that very definitely includes B’renice and Kellenth. Every bronze will have an equal chance in this mating flight.’

B’renice stares at her in surprise. Then, as muttering fills the room, she looks down at the floor, fists clenched and spine rigid.

‘Is there a problem?’ Serena asks sweetly, a tone that would have anyone who knows her running for the hills.

‘She’s a woman,’ S’lef says.

‘Thank you for your keen observational skills,’ she says dryly.

‘It isn’t right,’ pipes up another.

Despite her embarrassment B’renice looks up, sees the steely glint in Serena’s eyes and wonders how no one else in the room can see her determination, can sense the danger.

‘Why?’ Serena challenges, drawing herself up.

‘Well she can’t– and you– it would mean she–’

‘Show me where it is written that a woman cannot be Weyrleader,’ she says imperiously. She looks around the room, looks at each rider in turn, eyes lingering on B’renice a little longer than any of the others. ‘Show me,’ she repeats, and then sweeps out.

*

Serena knows full well that if any on them do go looking they won’t find a shred of evidence to support their prejudice. She herself has spent Thread knows how many hours scouring every scroll in the library here, has asked the harper (now always eager to help her), has asked the harper at Benden, has sent to Harper Hall to be completely certain (she wrote to Menolly, knows she’s not really the person to ask about Records but that as the first female harper she’ll understand, will look properly and give her the truth). It’s as she suspected, as she hoped: masculinity has always been assumed, but never stipulated. There is no reason beyond custom why, if Kellenth were to successfully fly Elliath, B’renice cannot become Weyrleader.

 _You like her_ , Elliath says as Serena paces her weyr, fizzing with excitement and adrenaline at what she’s just done, at what might be.

 _Yes,_ she admits. Because she cannot hide anything from Elliath, let alone something that fills her so entirely as her feelings for B’renice.

 _You wish me to allow Kellenth to catch me when I fly. None of them will catch me,_ she scoffs.

 _You know one of them must, dear one,_ Serena chides gently. _And why should it not be Kellenth?_

*

B’renice slips from the room soon after Serena, all but runs to Kellenth and nestles against him. His eyes are whirling with concern and he croons anxiously; she strokes his smooth scales, reassures him that she's alright.

 _Elliath says Serena is looking for you_ , he tells her _._

_I don't want to see her._

_Yes, you do. You can think of nothing else._

Serena lets herself in without a knock but B’renice knows she's there, from the familiar footsteps and scent as much as from Kellenth informing her. She doesn't raise her head, doesn't turn from the steady comfort of her dragon.

‘I hope I haven't just made things even more difficult for you,’ she says softly.

‘Why?’ B’renice asks.

‘Because it's unfair,’ Serena replies.

‘But you could end up with me,’ she protests, barely above a whisper.

‘Well, yes,’ Serena says. ‘That was rather the point.’

B’renice turns to her, stunned. ‘You–’ she begins, but is rendered speechless by the look in Serena's eyes.

Serena nods. ‘I would be far from averse to that outcome.’ She reaches to lay one hand on B’renice’s arm, the other on Kellenth. ‘In fact,’ she murmurs, ‘it would be my preference. By a long way.’

 _Elliath says that is true,_ Kellenth tells her.

B’renice stares at her. ‘I would be your choice for Weyrleader?’

‘Yes. And my choice for weyr _mate_.’

‘But I'm a woman.’

‘As observant as the rest of them, you are,’ Serena says, rolling her eyes. ‘You can't tell me you haven't noticed how I look at you?’

‘I– I thought I must be imagining it,’ B’renice mumbles. ‘Thought it couldn't be true.’

Serena smiles and shakes her head fondly. ‘You weren't, and it is.’

She tugs on B’renice’s hand, coaxes her to turn more fully.

‘Oh,’ she breathes. She reaches out hesitantly, caresses Serena's cheek. ‘What if– what if someone else–’

 _I will catch Elliath,_ Kellenth vows.

At the same time Serena replies, ‘I will still feel this way.’ She squeezes her hand, leans into the palm on her cheek, turns her face to press a kiss there.

And B’renice cannot stop herself. Swiftly, before any doubt can set in, she draws Serena closer and kisses her. Almost instantly Serena's hand is sliding up the back of her neck into her hair, Serena's arm is tight around her waist.

 _I will catch her,_ Kellenth repeats.

*

He does.

Kellenth may be untested in this arena but he is strong and fast. Urged on by the force of his rider’s love and desire, the other bronzes don't stand a chance.

Serena and B’renice grab at each other’s hands on the feeding ground, hold each other up, stumble through the gathered dragonriders, faint and dizzy. The feel of their laced fingers is the only thing keeping them grounded, their minds aloft with their dragons.

No one tries to stop them. No one _could_ stop them. Not now the rest of the bronzes have dropped back to the ground, unable to keep up with Elliath’s relentless, flirting flight. Not now Kellenth’s neck is twined with Elliath’s, not now they are rising triumphantly on outstretched wings, filled with elation and desire.

They barely make it to Serena’s weyr. Their lips crash together fiercely, hands tearing at clothing in a desperate need to feel, _oh Shards,_ hot, soft skin. They can hardly see, only the near blackness of each other’s eyes. It is unlike anything either of them has ever felt, this potent cocktail of their own desire and that of their dragons, human lust and dragon mating passion. They cling tight, can’t get close enough, fall into the bed and each other.

*

B’renice wakes still tangled with Serena. Kellenth rumbles contentedly from where he and Elliath are settled on the ledge outside, and B’renice hums in agreement. Beside her Serena stirs, opens her eyes; they have returned to their usual warm, glittering brown now, but her desire is still evident.

‘Morning,’ she smiles, brushing their lips together. ‘Weyrleader,’ she adds.

‘Morning,’ B’renice replies, sliding her arms around Serena. ‘Weyrmate.’

‘Last night was…’ Serena trails off, rolls her eyes at her inability to find any adequate words.

‘Yes,’ B’renice agrees. ‘Most definitely.’

Serena traces gentle fingers and soft kisses over the marks on B’renice’s skin, scratches and bruises and bites she doesn’t recall leaving. ‘Sorry,’ she murmurs, blushing. ‘You look like you’ve been mauled by a hatchling.’

‘So do you,’ B’renice points out. ‘I’m usually rather gentler, I promise. When I have full possession of my mind.’

Serena hovers above her, gazes locked. ‘Is that so?’

‘Mm-hm.’

‘Care to demonstrate?’

B’renice doesn’t answer. Instead she reaches up, one hand raking through Serena’s hair, the other trailing down her spine. Serena arches, hips and breasts pushing into B’renice’s, causing them both to groan.

‘We don’t have business to attend to?’ she checks.

‘Nothing that can’t wait,’ Serena promises. She sinks down, then, lets her whole weight rest on B’renice, traces her tongue along her bottom lip, nips gently before kissing her. ‘I want you,’ she says softly. ‘I want you as _us_ , without them.’

B’renice rolls them so they are side by side, tips of their noses touching. ‘And I want you.’

A moment of stillness, time suspended.

And then they surge together, lips more tender now than yesterday, eyes wide open to catch every shift and nuance of expression. Without the desperate urgency of the mating flight they take their time, luxuriate in each other, fingers exploring every inch of skin.

‘Whatever happens,’ Serena says seriously, one hand on B’renice’s cheek and the other on the jut of her hip. ‘Whatever happens, you are the one I want beside me, the one I want in my weyr, in my bed. Always.’ She punctuates it with a kiss, slow and deep, with her fingers sliding easily against B’renice.

The moan this draws from her throat is answered by one from her own as B’renice mirrors her actions. Serena fights the urge to close her eyes, instead keeps them locked on those of her lover, her weyrmate.

‘Oh, I love you,’ she sighs. ‘I wanted to tell you before but it felt like tempting fate.’

‘I know,’ B’renice murmurs, her eyes gleaming with tears. She searches for Serena’s free hand, the one that isn’t stroking her so tenderly it makes her heart ache even as she feels herself begin to tremble, tangles their fingers and squeezes tightly. ‘I love you too.’


	5. 1816, Bath, Somersetshire

Lady Berenice Wolfe has only been in Bath a day when her old friend Lady Russell calls on her.

‘You remember Mrs Campbell?’ she asks over tea. ‘Of Keller Hall?’

‘I do.’

‘She is in town, with her nephew. An odd young man, but very sweet in his way. He has something of an obsession with botany,’ she adds, frowning slightly. ‘Anyway, I have invited her to dine with me two nights hence.’

Berenice inclines her head, sips her tea, waits for her friend to come to her real object.

‘She has had to let Keller out,’ Lady Russell says eventually, when it becomes clear Berenice is not going to indulge her desire to be asked. ‘It appears the late Mr Campbell’s debts were rather larger than anyone suspected.’

‘But he died years ago,’ Berenice is unable to prevent herself from exclaiming.

‘Indeed,’ Lady Russell smiles at having caught her friend’s interest.

‘Poor woman.’

‘I thought you might like to join us, for dinner? You can, perhaps, commiserate over wayward husbands?’

*

Lady Russell seats them next to each other. Despite her circumstances Mrs Campbell is vivacious, if perhaps a little pale.

Berenice does not speak of Mr Campbell. Instead she asks about the nephew Lady Russell mentioned, notes how Mrs Campbell’s face lights up when she talks about him.

‘Lady Russell did not invite him also?’ she frowns.

‘My nephew does not care to dine out. He is rather particular about when and what he eats. It is proving to make things rather a challenge,’ she adds quietly.

Berenice nods. ‘I should like to meet him. Lady Russell mentioned his interest in botany. My husband left me with quite a collection of books on the subject. Perhaps I have something he has not read?’

‘You are most kind,’ Mrs Campbell smiles. ‘He will be a friend forever if that is the case.’

*

Mrs Campbell and her nephew pay Berenice a visit the very next morning.

‘I apologise,’ Mrs Campbell says. ‘When an invitation is extended he wishes to take it up immediately. I should not have told him so soon.’

Berenice shakes her head. ‘It is a delight to see you again – and to meet your nephew.’

She shows Jason into the library, tells him he is welcome to study anything he chooses.

‘I am afraid this is but a small portion of my late husband’s collection. The majority is at Lethbridge, my house in the country.’

‘We do not have a house in the country any more,’ Jason says mildly, wandering across to examine the books in the first cabinet. ‘Aunt Serena says other people have to live there now because we do not have enough money.’

Out of the corner of her eye Berenice sees Mrs Campbell flush with embarrassment.

‘And cousin Elinor and her husband will not allow us to live with them,’ he continues, oblivious to his aunt’s discomfort.

‘That is enough, Jason,’ Mrs Campbell says firmly. ‘Lady Wolfe does not wish to hear of our concerns.’

Jason pulls a book out, sets it on the table and is instantly engrossed. Berenice gestures to the door, shows Mrs Campbell back into the morning room where there is tea waiting.

‘I must apologise for my nephew,’ she begins, but Berenice silences her with a wave of her hand, passes her a cup and saucer and notes with distress how the china clinks with her trembling.

‘No need,’ she says softly. ‘And you will find me most unwilling to take part in any gossiping. Anything he says will not leave this house.’

She sees Mrs Campbell sag a little in relief. When she raises her cup to her lips it no longer shakes.

‘And anything you say too,’ Berenice adds. ‘I wish to be a friend, if I may. To both of you.’

‘I should like that very much, Lady Wolfe,’ Mrs Campbell smiles.

It is the first time Berenice has seen joy on her face and it brings her alight, makes Berenice determined to cause that expression again whenever she can.

‘Then I think you must call me Berenice,’ she smiles in return.

‘And you must call me Serena.’

*

Berenice offers a standing invitation to Jason to use her library at any time he desires (waving away Serena’s protestation that he will take this literally with a smile). And, by extension, an invitation to Serena to visit at any time.

They do not always visit together. Sometimes Jason comes alone, when his aunt has other engagements, spends hours poring over Marcus’s books. Berenice speaks to Serena about his food preferences, ensures her cook will prepare meals he likes. She does not disturb him while he works, but is more than happy to be distracted from her own reading or letter writing if he has questions or wishes to talk. Sometimes he even visits when Berenice is out, and after her servant turns him away the first time she instructs every member of her household to allow him full access to her library whenever he should call, regardless of her own whereabouts.

Sometimes Serena comes alone. They spend hours talking, reading, sat at the piano or with their needlework. Frequently find themselves astonished when whole mornings or afternoons slip away unnoticed.

Sometimes, when they call together, Berenice and Serena leave Jason to his studies and walk, arm in arm. Neither could say later where they walked, who they encountered, whether it was sunny or cloudy. But Berenice could recall every one of Serena’s words, every one of her expressions, every time her eyes sparkled, every time she smiled.

*          *          *

When Berenice extends a dinner invitation to both of them, Serena is astonished. Astonished because Berenice usually has a good memory for detail, surely recalls that Jason does not attend dinner parties. She is even more astonished when Jason voices his desire to accept the invitation.

‘You understand that there will be other guests present, that it will not only be the two of us and Lady Wolfe?’

‘Yes, Aunt Serena.’

Serena stares at him a moment longer, sees he is utterly calm about the prospect. ‘Very well, if you are sure.’ _He may always disappear into the library if it becomes too much,_ she thinks.

*

It quickly becomes apparent that Berenice has put a great deal of thought into this dinner party. They sit down to table earlier than is customary, at precisely the time Jason prefers to eat. Berenice sits at the head of the table, Serena to one side of her and Jason to the other. Sat beside him is Mr Fletcher, who produces botanical drawings, and they are soon deep in conversation.

It is, however, when the food is served that Serena tears up. For Berenice has, somehow, arranged precisely the meal Jason usually eats on this day each week. She stares down at her plate, waiting for the food to stop swimming before her eyes.

‘Serena?’ Berenice says softly, concern in her voice.

She blinks the lingering tears away and looks up, reaches to cover Berenice’s hand with her own for the briefest of moments. ‘You are the dearest, most thoughtful of friends,’ she murmurs, squeezing slightly as she glances at Jason, who is contentedly tucking into his meal, still happily conversing with Mr Fletcher. ‘Thank you.’

‘You are most welcome,’ Berenice smiles.

*          *          *

Berenice stifles a groan when she sees the invitation from Lady Russell, for a concert to benefit someone her friend patronises. She likes music well enough, but can think of a multitude of ways she would rather spend her evening than sat in a room full of people, forced to make polite conversation between items. But when Serena and Jason arrive later that morning, Serena is full of excitement about the very same event.

‘You are going too, are you not, Berenice?’ she asks hopefully. ‘It would not be half so much fun without you.’

‘Of course I am,’ Berenice says. For seeing Serena smile like this is worth any amount of discomfort. And having Serena beside her would make any event a pleasure.

*

They sit together on a bench in the Concert Room, close enough that Berenice can feel Serena’s warmth through their clothing. In the gap between songs she moves to study their shared concert bill, withdraws her hand in surprise when her fingers brush Serena’s.

‘Sorry,’ she apologises quietly.

‘Don’t be.’

Berenice cautiously replaces her hand, her littlest finger just touching Serena’s, looks at her friend in surprise when she moves her finger in the slightest of caresses. Serena’s eyes remain fixed on the concert bill, but her lips curve in a smile.

In the interval they remain in their seats, discussing the concert so far, until Lady Russell approaches with a man Berenice does not recognise. He clearly knows Serena, however, for he smiles when he sees her.

‘Look, Mrs Campbell. I found Mr Medcalfe sitting not three rows behind us.’

Serena rises to speak with him, and Lady Russell slips into her seat beside Berenice.

‘I introduced them a little while ago,’ Lady Russell says. ‘He very much admires her – and she seems to like him also. Enough, I hope, that she may soon not be in such financial distress.’

Berenice tears her eyes from Serena and stares at Lady Russell. ‘You mean to marry her off?’

‘I mean to assist her out of her current predicament,’ Lady Russell corrects her.

Berenice looks at Serena again. Mr Medcalfe is gazing at her, admiration clear on his face, and Serena is laughing at something he has said. She feels herself seethe with jealousy that he should be able to make Serena smile just as she herself can, that he should be able to make her light up.

 _Stop it_ , she thinks firmly. _Do you not wish for her to be happy?_

When Serena retakes her seat ready for the second act, Berenice feels almost faint with relief.

‘You do not wish to sit with Mr Medcalfe?’ she makes herself ask. ‘I do not mind being abandoned if you do.’

Serena shakes her head, shifts a little closer. ‘I am perfectly content here with you, my dear Berenice.’

This time when their fingers brush on the concert bill it is entirely deliberate. Berenice allows her hand to linger on the paper, feels the oddest sensation when Serena’s thumb slides to rest on her wrist. It remains there for the rest of the song, and Berenice does not take in a single word.

*          *          *

One afternoon when Jason has elected to remain at home they’re sat in the parlour, Berenice reading and Serena at the desk drawing, when they hear a knock at the door. The servant answers, then comes into the room to announce Berenice’s guest: Mr Cameron Wolfe.

Berenice stares at the young man, unable to keep the utter surprise from her countenance. ‘Cameron?’

‘Mother,’ he says with a small, tight smile.

Serena is aware that Berenice does not have the most intimate relationship with her children, does not know whether to be pleased or concerned that her son has arrived unannounced. ‘I think I shall go for a walk,’ she says softly.

Berenice’s eyes flick from her son, who she is still gazing at in disbelief, to her friend, who is setting down her pencil and rising from her seat.

‘You will come back?’

Serena nods, smiles a reassurance. Wishes she were closer so she could lay a comforting hand on Berenice’s shoulder. ‘A pleasure to meet you, Mr Wolfe,’ she says as she passes him.

Cameron inclines his head, eyes briefly leaving his mother’s face to glance at her. Serena forces herself not to look back as she leaves the room.

Serena walks slowly, allows them plenty of time to talk. She finds it difficult to stay away, though, her mind still in Berenice’s parlour, her feet leading her back to the familiar street without her awareness. She paces up and down the garden in the square, watches the door until she sees Cameron leave, makes herself wait a little longer to give Berenice time to compose herself before crossing the street and knocking.

Berenice is sat on the sofa, one hand over her face, the other clutching a letter. Serena hesitantly walks over to her, sits beside her with plenty of space between them. Berenice looks at her, lets go of the letter and reaches across the seat. Instantly Serena shifts closer and clasps her hand. They sit like that, silent, until Berenice sniffs and then sighs, rubs her eyes and then takes up the letter again, fingers worrying the paper.

‘It is from Charlotte,’ she says quietly, her voice shaking. ‘She has asked if I will visit her in her confinement. If I would be present to meet my grandchild.’

‘Oh, Berenice,’ Serena says, squeezing her hand.

‘I thought she would never wish to see me again.’

There are tears in Berenice’s eyes now, and Serena shifts even closer to offer her friend some support. She tugs gently on her hand, coaxes her to lean into her shoulder.

‘When do you leave?’

‘Cameron is returning to London tomorrow.’

‘I am so very pleased for you,’ Serena says. And she is. But she is also distressed at the prospect of being without her dearest friend, of many days – weeks – without seeing her, speaking to her.

It is not until Serena has left that Berenice sees what she had been working on earlier, sees that each of the sheets on the table contains sketches of her. Berenice touches them gently, traces the delicate pencil lines with her fingers. Serena has been drawing _her_ , and it makes her breath catch and her chest feel tight. She gathers the sheets, tucks them away safely. Returns to the portfolio in the morning, minutes before Cameron calls, and selects one page, upon which Serena has captured her smiling. _At her,_ she thinks. _I was smiling at her._ She slips the sheet into her book, slips the book into her luggage. Feels a strange sense of comfort at knowing she will have something of Serena with her while they are apart. Wishes she had excelled in her sketching lessons, wishes she had the skill to capture Serena’s likeness on the page to carry with her.

*

Berenice does not write, beyond a brief note to inform Serena of her safe arrival. She means to but does not know what to say, where to begin. How to tell Serena how very much she misses her. How she cannot sleep at night for thinking of her. How she is grateful to have been allowed back into her daughter’s life – to have been allowed into her granddaughter’s life – but wishes it could have occurred at any time other than this. How she desperately wishes that Serena were here with her.

So Berenice does not write, not even to reply when she receives a letter from Serena enquiring how she is, how Charlotte is, telling her that Bath is not the same without her. She tucks the letter inside her book, nestled between the pages along with the sketch, takes them both out and stares at them each evening as she sits in bed, fingers running over paper Serena's fingers also touched, over words and lines the product of her mind, her hand. But she does not write. Because how can she possibly set any of this down in ink, commit any of it to paper, when she cannot find the words to adequately express it, when she does not even know what it is that she is trying to express?

She sends another brief note on ahead of her when she leaves, informing Serena of her imminent return. Just before sealing it she adds an additional scrawl, squashed into the bottom corner of the page: ‘I have missed you – both of you’. There is not space for more, not space to pour out her heart even if she could find the words. Not space to add that missing Serena has been desperate, painful, at times consuming her so entirely she has been unable to think of anything else, even the daughter sat beside her, the granddaughter in her arms. That the only thing she has desired to do in the last days of her visit is to return to Serena, to see her face, her smile, the sparkling warmth of her eyes.

She wishes she were a poet. Perhaps then she would be able to name what she is feeling, be able to put into words the emotions filling her heart until she fears she might burst from them. But she is not, never has been, has always found it easier to speak with a look or a gesture than a word. So this will have to do. She will see her soon, in any case; perhaps then her mind will quiet enough for her to think, to explain – to herself as much as to Serena.

‘I have missed you, my dearest friend,’ she writes. ‘I cannot wait to see you.’

*

It is not until Jason informs her what has happened while she was away that Berenice realises what her feelings towards her friend truly are.

‘Hello, Berenice,’ Jason says when he and Serena are announced. ‘Mr Medcalfe has asked Aunt Serena to marry him.’ He continues into the library, closes the door behind him as usual so as not to be disturbed by their conversation, blithe to the distress his words have caused.

‘Is it true?’ Berenice asks.

‘Yes,’ Serena replies, eyes flicking around the room, looking everywhere but at Berenice.

Berenice feels her heart drop, finds her legs are suddenly incapable of supporting her weight and sinks heavily onto one end of the sofa as Serena perches on the other. She grips the arm hard, focuses on the feel of it to keep herself from surrendering to the sudden dizziness almost overwhelming her. ‘And what will your answer be?’ she asks quietly, unwillingly, once she has found her voice.

‘He is a good enough man, far better then Edward was. And it would put an end to my financial worries.’

‘Yes.’

‘He does not understand Jason,’ she continues. ‘But he is willing to take him on, if rather grudgingly. I cannot imagine many would do that.’

‘But?’ Berenice prompts, sensing her friend's reluctance and trying not to allow her heart to rise at it.

‘I do not love him,’ Serena sighs. ‘But I do not see what choice I have.’

‘Come to Lethbridge with me,’ Berenice says, the words escaping before she can prevent them, before she can think better of it. ‘Come and live with me, both of you.’

Serena looks at her, eyes wide and bright, then away at the fireplace. ‘I cannot,’ she says quietly. ‘I do not wish for your charity.’

‘I am not acting out of charity.’

‘Then what?’ Serena asks, looking at her almost pleadingly.

‘I think you know. Oh, dearest Serena, please tell me that you know, that you feel it too.’

She reaches for Serena's hand, raises it to her lips and, gazes still locked, presses a lingering kiss to her knuckles.

Serena cannot find her voice to reply, cannot look away. Her breath stutters. All thoughts of Mr Medcalfe fly from her head. The aching emptiness she has felt since Berenice left Bath vanishes with her touch, with the look in her eyes, the devotion she had previously disguised now so apparent that Serena forgets the weeks of silence. She understands now why Berenice did not write, why she did not reply to Serena’s letter. Because _oh_ , she has been struggling with this too, struggling to understand what has grown between them, how to explain it, what words to use for it. Worrying that it is only her, that Berenice does not – could not – feel the same, that were she ever to find out she would despise Serena.

She has been silent too long. The hope is fading from Berenice's face, the light is fading from her eyes. She looks away, casts her gaze down to her lap, lowers theirs joined hands. But before she can let go Serena squeezes her fingers. Berenice's head snaps up, eyes desperately searching her face.

‘I do,’ Serena says, voice so quiet and hoarse she barely recognises it as her own. She clears her throat, repeats herself more firmly. ‘I do know. I do feel it.’

She offers a smile, and Berenice's entire face lights up in response. Serena gently tugs at her hand, raises it to her lips in a mirror of Berenice's prior act.

‘Will you, then? Will you come? If it is agreeable to Jason, that is.’

‘I'd be glad to,’ Serena says, tears pricking her eyes, reaching for Berenice’s other hand and pressing it with her own. ‘My dearest, dearest Berenice.’


	6. 2016, Holby City Hospital

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been a lot of fun trying to work out what it is that makes Bernie and Serena _them_ in order to transplant them to different settings - I'm so glad you've enjoyed me indulging myself in playing with them like this! (And thank you for the lovely comments - I'm working on replying to them...)

Bernie is very strongly considering smoking her last, symbolic, two year old cigarette – has in fact got as far as sparking her lighter and holding the flame to it – when her attention is drawn to the brunette she saw when she arrived this morning, still standing in front of a clearly broken down car. She could just ignore her, continue with her fast turning to shit day – and usually she would. But something pulls at her. Maybe it’s the recognition of a kindred spirit, someone else whose day is decidedly not going to plan.

Or then again maybe it’s her voice as she harangues the mechanic on the other end of the phone.

*

‘Engine been growling or whining?’

Something inside Serena is tugged by that voice. She turns to see a tall, slender blonde with messy hair and an unlit fag dangling from her lips walking towards her.

‘Any intermittent smell of hot or burning rubber?’

‘Define intermittent.’

Why is her heart racing? Why does she feel hot and cold, nervous and excited and comforted?

‘Alternator might be cactus,’ she says, taking the fag from her lips.

Their eyes meet. Serena feels like she’s drowning and soaring and filled with light, all at once.

When she realises who she is Serena holds out her hand in greeting, lingers just a little longer than she might usually upon meeting a new colleague.

*          *          *

Their paths keep crossing, almost as if the universe is trying to throw them together. Serena finds herself incapable of bearing a grudge against Bernie, will forgive her anything. She thinks about this on sleepless nights, when she’s mindlessly completing discharge forms, when they’re scrubbing in or out beside each other. When she catches herself watching Bernie from across the ward, time and again. When she longs to touch her, for the comfort it brings her as much as any it brings Bernie.

*

Bernie thinks about it too. She has never wanted to be someone’s friend this much, never wanted someone to think well of her for reasons outside the professional, never wanted anything so badly that she burns with it. And she’s doing such a terrible job of it too, seems to be almost unerring in her ability to fuck things up when it comes to Serena. She should just give it up as a lost cause, save Serena from being lumbered with her – but somehow Serena keeps on giving her another chance, and she can’t quite tear herself away because she feels like a better version of herself when they’re together. Or at least like she _could_ be a better version of herself, like she wants to try and change into someone who deserves Serena’s friendship.

*          *          *

It’s Cameron’s words that make Bernie stop and think – really think – about her and Serena. About how Serena has insinuated herself into Bernie’s life, into the heart she had thought was too well guarded for anything like this to happen.

It’s Serena’s words that make her do something about it, make her reach for her friend and cling tight and kiss her like it’s the only thing she’s ever wanted to do.

It feels like it is.

*

It happens so slowly, over surgeries and drinks, paperwork and coffee, that Serena doesn’t realise it’s happening at all.

Until Bernie kisses her, that is. Until Bernie kisses her, and she kisses back. She knows then, in that breathless, desperate moment, exactly what has been happening. That she has been falling in love.

*          *          *

 _Why did I panic?_ Serena thinks, curled in bed after Bernie has decided they should ‘keep it confined to theatre’. _Why didn’t I just tell her?_

*

 _You’ve ruined it now, Wolfe,_ Bernie thinks, tossing back a finger of whiskey and feeling the burn down her throat. _Well done._

*          *          *

‘Coward,’ she mutters, over and over. ‘Utter, idiotic, coward.’

*

_Why didn’t you just keep your mouth shut? Why didn’t you just leave it at a kiss? Why didn’t you realise the mere mention of love would terrify her?_

*          *          *

When the mess and misunderstandings are all over with, and they are finally on the same page, and they finally fall into bed together, it feels as if the stars have aligned. As if this – _them_ – is meant to be. As if they were always supposed to find one another, as if every mistake was merely to make this destination sweeter. As if nothing in the universe could have kept them apart.

They each – silently, privately – scold themselves for thinking like this, for thinking that they were fated. They are, after all, women of science, of evidence, of rationality. There is no evidence for fate, for destiny, for soulmates.

And yet.

Sometimes they each have the oddest dreams. Little remains when they wake, when they try to explain it to the other. Just the certain knowledge that it involved the two of them, in some unfamiliar, unknown place and time. That in every setting their paths cross, their stories intertwine, their hearts and lips and minds meet.

‘I would have found you whenever we lived,’ Bernie says one morning, after one of these dreams. ‘I’m sure of it.’

Serena smiles. From anyone else it would be a cheesy line, would make her roll her eyes and scoff, but not from Bernie. Not when she feels it too. ‘I know it,’ she agrees, finding Bernie’s hand and lacing their fingers, finding Bernie’s lips and brushing a kiss to them. ‘I can’t imagine any incarnation of me could be content without some incarnation of you in her life. Or her bed,’ she adds with a wink.

Suddenly Serena finds herself on her back with Bernie hovering above her, the ends of her hair ticking Serena’s face and moving with every breath she takes. There is such depth in Bernie’s eyes, now that she has opened herself to Serena, as if they hold the universe within them. At this precise moment they are filled with love and desire, and a playful glint.

‘I would gladly spend a hundred lifetimes questing to be in your bed,’ she says mock-seriously, pressing her lips together tightly to prevent a grin.

‘And I would gladly spend a hundred lifetimes as your holy grail,’ Serena replies, just as seriously. ‘Your pot of gold, your– your object of–’

She’s cut off in her fumbling by Bernie’s lips on hers, insistent yet tender. Runs her hand down Bernie’s back and draws her down, sighing softly at the familiar, comforting weight of her. Tangles her other hand in Bernie’s hair and holds her firmly in place.

‘Perhaps we were lovers in Ancient Greece,’ Serena suggests, between kisses pressed across Bernie’s clavicles. ‘Perhaps Sappho wrote about us.’

‘Perhaps we’ll be lovers in space, in another galaxy, far far away’ Bernie counters, between kisses feathered across Serena’s forehead and cheeks, dropped to the tip of her nose.

Their gazes meet, and it still makes Serena’s heart swell, still makes Bernie’s mind spin: that they have found each other, that they are together, that they love each other.

‘Whatever we may have been, whatever we might be – I’m glad we’re here, now.’

‘Me too,’ Bernie grins, quirking her eyebrows.

‘Not like that,’ Serena scolds lightly. ‘Although yes, of course like that too,’ she corrects herself when Bernie pulls away, feigning hurt. ‘Always like that, darling,’ she murmurs against Bernie’s skin. ‘But not _just_ like that.’

‘I know,’ Bernie nods, eyes on Serena’s again. She holds herself up on one arm, gently strokes Serena’s face with her other hand.

A moment of silence, just like in theatre, so much passing unspoken between them. Adoration and understanding, apology and forgiveness, devotion and desire. And love. Even when they’re furious with each other, there’s always love.

‘You know the alarm’s going to go soon,’ Serena points out as Bernie's lips begin a slow trail along her jaw, down her neck.

‘I'll just have to be quick then,’ Bernie replies, lips vibrating against Serena's skin.

‘Is that a promise, Ms Wolfe?’

‘It's that or I stop now,’ Bernie says. ‘Before things get serious,’ she adds, shifting her weight, pushing herself up so there's air between them again.

‘I think things already _are_ serious, don't you?’ Serena murmurs. She takes advantage of the sudden gap between their hips, slips her hand briskly down Bernie's side, through her damp curls. She only misses her destination because Bernie has moved, has twisted so they're lying side by side.

‘Quickly it is, then,’ she breathes.

Her mouth is less tender now, and the feel of her tongue makes Serena shudder, makes her forget what she was doing, her hand resting uselessly on Bernie's hip. Bernie's fingers tug at her nipples, Bernie's lips leave hers to drag hot kisses down her throat and then up again, around to that spot behind her ear, the one Bernie seems to be able to find unerringly, whatever position they're in.

‘Oh yes, just there, oh darling.’

She feels Bernie smile against her skin and it's that – that sense that Bernie feels smug, triumphant, that she’s gloating at her success in reducing Serena to this so quickly, with so little effort – that spurs her into action.

Her fingers slide from Bernie's hip to hot, silky wetness and deep inside. Serena runs their entire length, from tip to metacarpophalangeal joint, along her clit and Bernie keens softly. Bernie makes so little noise, usually, so Serena draws her fingers out and does it again, again, slow and relentless.

And then Bernie is doing the same to her. Serena's eyes flutter closed as a shiver runs through her body, as her breath stutters, as a moan vibrates from her throat and into Bernie's mouth.

‘Look at me,’ Bernie pleads, voice strained. ‘Serena, look at me.’

She forces her eyelids apart, forces her vision to focus. All she can take in is Bernie's eyes, deep and dark and glittering, knows they must mirror her own. It would be easier to let them fall closed again, to surrender, but she longs to see Bernie's face, to watch as she falls apart under her touch, just as much as Bernie longs to see her.

*

‘Maybe that explains why we’re so good at this,’ Serena muses when they’re lying still again, sticky fingers tangled, sweat cooling on their skin, breathing each other in.

‘Hm?’

‘Bound to have remembered something from our countless lifetimes together. And, _oh_ , that is definitely memorable.’

Bernie chuckles, runs the backs of her fingers down Serena’s cheek. ‘Don’t you ever change.’

Serena turns her head so she can kiss Bernie’s hand, is about to reply when the alarm goes. Bernie reaches over her to switch it off, takes advantage of her new position to gently press Serena into the pillows and kiss her again, smiling all the while.

‘Unfortunately in this lifetime we have to get up for work.’

‘Together, though,’ Serena smiles.

‘Together,’ Bernie agrees. And can’t resist one more kiss before getting out of bed to start the day.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Cover Art: given all of time and space, I would still find my way to you](https://archiveofourown.org/works/9826835) by [Kayryn](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kayryn/pseuds/Kayryn)




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